The Moon by Night (47 page)

“It's gonna hurt,” Officer Goodin answered.

“Great,” the young man murmured. “It's all right, Dr. Duvall, I'm no muffin. Debride on.”

“I know you're not a muffin, Officer Jamison, but I see no sense in suffering pain if it can be prevented.” She poured a two-ounce dose of laudanum into a small glass with hatch marks.

“For Mr. Pocket too, please, Cheney,” Dev said, as he took one of the stock splints—a twelve-inch long piece of polished oak, planed very thin—and cut two lengths to fit a thumb splint.

Cheney gave one glass to the policeman and prepared another for Alfie.

Officer Jamison sniffed the glass and said, “Dr. Duvall, are you sure you got the right bottle there? This smells like raw whiskey to me.”

“Yes, laudanum has an alcohol base,” she said, folding a clean piece of gauze and pouring a small bit of carbolic acid on it. “You'd better take it, Officer Jamison,” she warned, leaning over his knee and beginning to clean it with small scooping movements.

He winced, then tossed the medicine back. “Tastes like cheap whiskey too. Begging your pardon, ma'am.”

Without hesitating Alfie downed his dose. Dev started cleaning the cut on the back of his hand with the salve.

Cheney finished cleaning out the man's knee, then took a magnifying glass and leaned very close over it. With a pair of blunt forceps, she gently pushed open each side of the gash to see inside the wound better. Once she pushed rather hard, and the officer jumped. She looked up in surprise—generally laudanum had an instant pain-blocking and sedative effect—and saw that his face was pale and he was biting his lower lip.

Without a word she poured another two-ounce dose and handed the glass to him. Eagerly he drank it.

Dev turned around and saw him taking the second dose. He frowned. “Officer Jamison, do you take laudanum regularly? To help you sleep, for example?”

Monty Jamison had a broad, boyish, freckled face with bright blue eyes that could not possibly hide a lie. “Oh no, sir! I wouldn't do such a thing. I don't drink!”

Dev turned back to Alfie. “What about you, Mr. Emmett?”

“I drink,” the man announced, “and I sleep just fine.”

“What about the laudanum, then?” Dev asked. “Does it taste like whiskey to you?”

“Surely does, Doctor. But the lady did say it has an alcohol base, so I figure there's the reason.”

“Maybe,” Dev murmured. He picked up the laudanum bottle and poured a generous portion out into the glass. He held it up to the light coming from the gas lamp and then brought it to his nose and sniffed. He held it up to Officer Goodin's nose. “I know you never take a drink, Officer Goodin, but you've smelled plenty of liquor. What do you think?”

He sniffed, then answered, “Sir, it smells exactly like cheap whiskey to me, as Officer Jamison said. There is that funny dull medicine smell of laudanum too, but it's real faint. I thought maybe you use some kind of different stuff than what I've seen and smelled.”

Cheney held up a curved needle, squinting to see the eye so she could thread it with a long length of black suture. “Dr. Buchanan and I were having a similar discussion before you came in. We were wondering ourselves if we had some different brand that required different calculations for dosage.”

Her voice and all sound faded out of Dev's awareness as he stared at the needle glinting in Cheney's hand. She was having trouble threading it, and it flashed as she moved it in the garish light.

But Dev wasn't thinking about the needle. His thoughts slowed and arranged themselves in a sort of step-by-step order, coming to the forefront of his brain one by one, with visions of the orderly items presented for his examination.

Wilhelmina says every time that the laudanum tastes just like raw whiskey.

The ipecac didn't work as an expectorant for Mevrouw de Sille's cough.

Mevrouw de Sille was the first patient we admitted with influenza.

It was only after Dr. Pettijohn took over as her doctor that in-house patients started getting influenza.

Wilhelmina came here to get her burn cleaned out and dressed. It was on Dr. Pettijohn's shift.

Then she contracted hospital gangrene. She is Dr. Pettijohn's patient. After he examined her and admitted her and Geraldine, Geraldine contracted puerperal fever.

Rebecca Green overdosed on a morphine injection—

He had been staring into space, frowning darkly, when suddenly his dark eyes glared with awareness. “Cheney! When you gave Rebecca Green the morphine injection, did you use the hospital supply or your own?”

“Mine, from my bag,” she answered, at last threading the needle successfully. She wasn't puzzled by Dev's behavior. He often acted like this when he was pursuing some train of thought. She bent over Officer Jamison's knee and saw him steel his muscles.

“What about the atropine? Yours or the hospital's?” Dev demanded.

“The hospital's,” she answered. She positioned the needle into a pair of short forceps, pinched up the bottom part of the wound, and placed the tip of the needle.

While Dev watched her, the face of Cornelius Melbourne, locked in a rictus of agony, loomed up like a monster in his mind.
Tetanus can be contracted from cheap horse-gut sutures…. Dr. Pettijohn orders, pays for, stocks, organizes all the supplies—

To everyone's surprise, Dev moved swiftly to Cheney's side and grabbed her arm to stop her. Cheney straightened up and said indignantly, “Dev, what are you doing? What's wrong?”

“I don't know, but I have to find out
now,
” he said gutturally. “Just—don't do anything until I get back.”

He rushed downstairs to find Carlie, who was standing at the lab table filling the smaller blue bottles with laudanum from the carboys. As soon as he saw the boy's naïve face and his endearing fierce concentration in performing the simple task, Dev deliberately slowed down his fast hard steps and settled his face into what he hoped was a gentler expression.

“Hello, Carlie,” he said quietly. “I need to ask you a question.”

He looked up warily. “Yes, sir?”

“Have you ever seen Dr. Pettijohn forget to scrub in the carbolic acid stands when he should?”

The boy looked confused, then fearful. Dev went on, “It's all right, Carlie. I know you don't want to get anyone in trouble, but I do need to know. It would help me very much if you could tell me the truth.”

Carlie nodded. “Okay, Dr. Buchanan, if you say so. Sometimes Dr. Pettijohn forgets. I don't, though.”

“I know you don't, Carlie,” Dev said. “Now this is very important. Were you with Dr. Pettijohn when he admitted Miss Wilhelmina and Miss Geraldine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did he forget to scrub then?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Dev didn't want to prod the boy into telling something just to please him, so he just looked at Carlie expectantly. Finally the boy blushed and said, “I don't like to be a tattletale, Dr. Buchanan, but I did wonder 'bout poor Miss Wil and Miss Gerry getting so sick. Miss Wil's arm was real bad…and then Dr. Pettijohn didn't even wash up when he went to see about Miss Gerry's baby, which wasn't born yet.”

Dev nodded sadly, put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and squeezed it lightly. “You're a good attendant, Carlie, and I am glad that you're no tattletale. But this is a special case, and answering my questions truthfully was the right thing to do. Now listen very carefully. I want you to leave this laudanum and go over to the office and start packing up all of the supplies and drugs that are there. We're going to move them from the office to the hospital, and that's what we're going to use tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, his eyes wide. “Is something wrong with the things we have here, sir?”

“I think so, Carlie.” Dev took out his key ring and removed two keys from it. “Here, this is the key to the office door, and this one is to the supply cabinets. I know you can remember, Carlie. I'll send whoever I can over to the office to help you. But you go on ahead now, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered with determination. He took the keys, muttering under his breath, and went as fast as he could to the outside exit. Dev bounded up the stairs and back to the emergency clinic. Cheney was still inside, talking to the two policemen and the pickpocket.

Dev said to Officer Goodin, “I need you to come with me to look for one of our physicians. Dr. Marcus Pettijohn. I'll explain as we go.” Dev began unbuttoning his coverall.

“Very well, sir,” Officer Goodin said, then told Officer Jamison, “You just let the doctor take care of that, Monty. Don't mind old Alfie if he sneaks away. We can always get him tomorrow.”

“I'm not going anywhere with a busted thumb,” Alfie said glumly.

Dev threw off his coverall and turned to Cheney, who looked mystified and was still holding her needle and forceps. He gently took them out of her hand. “Listen to me, Cheney,” he said forcefully, his dark eyes boring into her. “Do not give any patients morphine injections, under any circumstances. Send Miss Nilsson
right now
to the office to help Carlie get all of the supplies and the drugs we have there. Use them instead of anything that we have here at the hospital. Even the carbolic acid stands need to be emptied and filled with bottles from the office. And
in particular,
Cheney,
do not
use any of the sutures from the hospital, under any circumstances. Use only sutures that we have at the office. Do you understand?”

“No, Dev, I don't, but I'll do exactly what you say,” she said quietly. “Dev, Dr. Pettijohn said he's at the Corinthian Hotel now.”

“Then that's where we'll go first,” Dev said grimly. He left, savagely yanking aside the curtain and striding down the hallway with hard steps. Officer Goodin followed him, his face grave.

Cheney turned to Officer Jamison and the two looked at each other blankly for a few moments.

Alfie the Pocket said, “No disrespectin' Dr. Buchanan, ma'am, but if you don't mind, I'd like to take another snort of your pretend laudanum. Cheap whiskey it may be, but it does warm the toes.”

Cheney sighed, poured out two fingers of the amber liquid, and handed it to Alfie. “Might as well drink up, gentlemen. It's going to be a long hard night.”

“How did you get here?” Dev asked Officer Goodin as he pulled on his overcoat, gloves, and top hat.

“Rode my old horse Gino on the beat today. Monty and I decided we didn't hardly want to slog through three feet of snow all day and night.”

“That's good,” Dev said, “because my wife delivered me by her coach, so I have no horse. I hope Officer Jamison won't mind if I borrow his.” They went out the emergency doors, hunched against the sudden rush of frozen air, and headed for Roe's Livery. It was cold, but the snow had stopped.

“I'm sure he won't, sir, but would you mind telling me why we're going after one of your doctors?” Officer Goodin couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

“I'll be glad to, but I'd prefer to wait until we're on the way.” Dev went into the stables and saw that Shiloh was sitting at the stove with James and John. At their feet both Sean and Shannon were sprawled. When the two men came in, both dogs looked up. Shannon got up and came to them, her whole back end waving her skinny tail. One ear was flopped up on top of her head. Dev automatically reached down to move it and scratch her head. “Shiloh, I'm glad you're here. We've got a big problem. Would you ride with me and Officer Goodin?”

“Sure,” he said instantly, rising and heading for the stall where Balaam's head poked inquisitively over the door. “I'll saddle up Balaam, boys. You two get Dr. Buchanan and Officer Goodin fixed up.”

Within five minutes they were riding south on Seventh Avenue. Traffic was scarce—to Dev's surprise, it was after midnight—but they rode slowly anyway. The streets were frozen, and the mud was icy. None of them wanted a horse to slip and break a leg.

After they got arranged side by side, Dev said, “Thank you, gentlemen, for being so prompt and ready to help. Shiloh, we're going to the Corinthian Hotel to try to find Dr. Marcus Pettijohn. I need to ask him some questions. Officer Goodin may need to arrest him.”

“And what am I here for?” Shiloh asked curiously.

“Let's just say that I need Dr. Pettijohn to answer my questions in a prompt and concise manner. You will be able to facilitate that, I'm sure.”

“I see,” Shiloh said gravely. He was astounded that Dev seemed to be saying he wanted Shiloh to threaten Pettijohn—maybe even do more than threaten. But he knew Devlin Buchanan well. If Dev said it must be, then it was for a very good reason.

As if he knew what his companions must be thinking, Dev went on, “Let me assure you, Officer Goodin, that if my suspicions are correct, this is a matter of life and death. I hope I am wrong, but if I am right, Dr. Pettijohn may be responsible for at least one death. And unless I find out the truth tonight, he may be responsible for more deaths.”

Officer Goodin stared at Dev for long moments, then nodded as if he'd come to a decision. He didn't know Dev very well, for he worked more often with Cheney. But he said quietly, “Dr. Buchanan, I think that I'm going to be obliged to trust you and Mr. Irons-Winslow here to handle this matter in the best way you see fit. I don't understand the problem, so I don't think I would be the one to interrogate Dr. Pettijohn.”

“You're right,” Dev said evenly. “You couldn't, and I appreciate you deferring to my judgment, sir. But I will try to explain, at least in general terms.

“We have had one death under circumstances that were not suspicious, exactly, but that I can see may have been a premature death. We have another patient in critical condition, and he, too, may have suspicious complications. And there are other things, small things, that are relatively meaningless by themselves, but when you look at the sum total of them, they could be extremely significant.”